


of all the gin joints in all the world (waste time dreaming of you)

by orphan_account



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Angst, M/M, Multi, Pining, Polyamory, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-18 13:45:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3571835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the moment they first walked into Smith’s bar, he knew he was in love.  Trouble was, they were already in a relationship - with each other.  ~Hatsome Bartender AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. like i'll never be the same

Smith noticed the shorter one first. Chocolate eyes open wide, glinting softly in the dim yellow bar lighting. The light was good for him, warmed up his face, softened the sharp angular lines. He didn’t look like bar folk; he was wearing a flannel button up and chucks, seeming about as comfortable with his surroundings as Smith would be in a concert hall. His companion, nearly as tall as Smith himself, had piercing light eyes - far lighter than Smith’s own (and he’d been complimented enough on his own to know they were appealing). He was more confident, but muted; his steps along the old wooden floor were nearly silent.

He hadn’t thought he was staring but then he heard Sips’ chuckle from his right and turned to see a coy expression playing around the lines of his face. “Kermit, stop making eyes at the customers and get me another, will ya?” He wiggled his glass of cheap beer at Smith.

“I wasn’t-” Smith began, then paused. He knew better than to give in to Sips (once the old bastard got a hold of something, he went after it with incredible dogged determination). “Yeah, fuckin’, I’d love to fuck one of ‘em right in the ass,” he said, wincing internally. Sounded a lot less like a joke than usual. No way Sips would fall for that.

But, surprisingly, he said nothing as Smith grabbed his glass and went to fill it at the tap.

_Tmp, tmp_

“-it’s not that I’m a taskmaster, Ross, and you know it. He’s just a lazy little fuck with no motivation.”

“He definitely is a lazy little fuck,” said the other man. “ _And_ you’re a hardass taskmaster. Between the two of you, it’s a wonder I’m still sane.”

“ _Hah_.” Sarcasm fairly oozed from the words. Smith glanced up in time to see it was the shorter one who was speaking. “That’s assuming you are sane, and mate, I don’t know if you remember that time I beat you in Super Mario Bros-”

“That was _one_ time-”

“-and you got so angry you actually _broke_ your controller throwing it out of a three-story window.”

Smith couldn’t stifle a snort, and the two looked up at him, startled. Smith cleared his throat, fighting back nervousness, and brought Sips his drink.

“Wouldn’t you agree a man who throws his XBox controller out of a three-story window must be at least a little mad?” The shorter one asked. Sips raised his eyebrows at Smith, then turned away, heading to the back.

At the prolonged silence, Smith realized he was being addressed, and turned toward the two.

He grinned, putting much more effort into it than usual. “Couldn’t say it’s an everyday sort of thing to do.”

The shorter man grinned back, teeth blindingly white and just a little crooked. The smile filled out his face, made it seem less sharp. Smith liked it. A lot.

“Now you’ve got the fucking bartender on your side, you smarmy little bastuard,” the taller man said, affecting a tragically defeated voice. “Please, to prevent further harm to my ego, beer. And a lot of it.”

“Brand?” Smith asked (he didn’t think they were the type to know, but it never hurt to ask).

“The cheapest you’ve got,” the short man said. “And I’ll have the same.”

Smith raised an eyebrow. “Drowning your sorrows?” It was still light outside - a bit early for the drink ‘till you black out crowd. Not to mention it was a Tuesday.

“Trying to wipe today’s embarrassment from my mind, forever,” the short man said. “Ross and I, well, we had a big project to present and our third man fucked us over big time, the whole thing came crashing down around our heads, I’m an embarrassment, and I’ll never gain back my reputation.”

“What about my reputation, you narcissistic little fuck?”

“You never had one to begin with, mate.”

Smith chuckled. “Well, you’re welcome to stay here so long’s you don’t end up vomiting all over the nice flooring.”

The taller - Ross - pointed at the smaller. “Don’t look at me! Trott’s the one who ends up spilling his guts at the end of the night.”

A sour look crossed the shorter - Trott’s - face. “I can’t handle as much as you can, and that’s my fault now?”

Smith turned away to fetch their drinks, aware of the continuing bickering behind his back.

“‘Sright you can’t _handle_ it. It’s a bit too much of a _handful_ , am I right?”

“Fuck you.”

“You wish, mate.”

“Whaddayou mean, ‘you wish’? Those retorts don’t work anymore, you fucking twat.”

“I’ll retort _you_.”

“Well now you’re just reaching.”

There was a startled yelp. Smith turned around, a beer in each hand, to see the smaller glaring at the other. But it seemed like he was having trouble keeping a straight face, his lips curving up at the edges. Ross was staring down at him, their eyes meeting with intensity - and Smith suddenly felt like an outsider, like he was the one who didn’t belong here (in the bar he worked at seven nights a week). Like he was invading their space.

He didn’t like it.

He set their beers down a little too forcefully on the wooden bar, and both turned to look at him with surprise. He forced a smile back on his face, not wanting to become the crazy bartender they chatted about the next day. “Enjoy,” he said, trying to tamp down on his disappointment. He’d hoped at least one of them was single, but if they were fucking each other, well…

The taller flashed him a bright grin. “Thanks, mate. Sorry we’re so batty. It’s been a long day.”

Smith was equal parts disappointment and bright, fluttering joy. The result left him antsy, and he reached under the counter to get his whisky, pouring himself a sloppy glass. Trott watched with eyebrows raised.

“Drinking on the job?”

“You’re the only ones here. Not like I’ve got to be professional for you two, I’d imagine.”

Ross chuckled, but Trott seemed edgy. “What about the other man?”

“Oh, Sips? He’s fucking the owner. Just hangs around here all day making unwanted comments. He’d probably just encourage me.”

“Ah,” Trott said, seeming to relax somewhat. “That’s all right then, I suppose?”

Ross dropped his hand down onto Trott’s shoulder, thumb stroking lightly along his neck. With his other hand he grabbed his beer and took a swig. He made a face, giving Smith an affronted look.

Smith shrugged. “You asked for the cheapest. This place is a dive.”

“No kidding,” Ross muttered, taking another swig. “Soon enough my tastebuds will be shot, anyway,” he said, half to himself.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” Smith said, unable to help himself.

“What, you know everyone who comes in?” Trott asked dubiously.

“How could I forget two fine gentlemen such as yourselves?” He let the compliment hang heavy on the air for a moment. “I work here seven nights, been here three years. I recognize everyone.”

“Mmhm,” Trott said, looking down into his beer glass as if it held the secrets to the universe.

“We aren’t the bar type, don’t drink much,” Ross said. His hand moved from its place on Trott’s shoulder to reach around his back, tugging him a bit closer. It looked so natural now, Smith was surprised he hadn’t noticed how in tandem they were when they entered. “But today’s a special circumstance. Poor Trotty was working himself to death over this presentation.”

Trott huffed out a breath, but didn’t comment on the nickname. “But at least we’ve made a new friend,” Ross continued, holding his hand out to Smith. “Name’s Ross Hornby, this little bugger is Chris Trott.”

Smith set his whisky down with a heavy clunk, grabbing Ross’ hand to shake. “Alex Smith. I go by Smith.”

“Smith,” Ross said, and Smith’s responding smile was a bit too enthusiastic. “See, look, Trott. New friend. Silver lining to everything, eh?”

Trott seemed to shake himself out of his reverie, giving Smith a small smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“Look, between us, do you guys want anything stronger? On the house.”

“I don’t know,” Ross said, looking down at Trott.

“It depends. Would you get angry if I threw up in the bathroom?”

Smith laughed. “Seeing as I would probably end up having to clean it, absolutely.”

“Probably best to stick with beer then.”

“I’ll take something stronger,” Ross said. “I promise I won’t ruin your flooring.”

“No problem.”

The silence that fell seemed natural, the faint sounds of the folksy music drifting from the speakers. Smith could hear Sips shuffling around in the back, footfalls heavy on the wood. The whole building was wood - old and creaky and difficult to regulate temperature. No wonder the place was such a dive.

“So it’s just you here, then?” Trott asked.

Smith shrugged. “Unless you count Sips. And he’s more hindrance than help.”

“What about the owner?”

“This is just his startup. Right now he’s devoted himself to a chain of Mexican restaurants, though I’d bet you a million he’s never actually had Mexican cuisine. He mostly leaves me to myself.”

“That must be nice,” Trott said. “Being your own boss.”

“What he means is,” Ross said, “how nice it is not to get repeatedly fucked in the ass by rich old men and their superior bullshit.”

“That too,” Trott allowed.

“Where do you guys work, then?” Smith asked, leaning his elbows on the counter.

Ross nodded at the window. “Investment firm up on main street. Yes, it is as soul-sucking as you might imagine. Luckily I met Trott there or who knows how I would’ve ended up.”

Trott’s gaze was downward, but a sweet smile crossed his lips at Ross’ words. That pang beat at Smith’s insides again, but he only took another swig of whisky and kept talking. “So, what, you had some group project? Sounds more college than big investment firm.”

Trott sighed heavily. “You’d think so. I think it’s their way of weeding us out - we’ve been there two years, like most of the other grunts - and if they have an excuse they’ll toss you out before you start gunning for a promotion. Luckily Ross and my records are fucking spotless otherwise, or we’d be broke and well on our way to homelessness.”

“Oh, come on,” Ross said. “It’s not so bad as that,” he told Smith. “Trott just worries.”

“Sorry to hear it, though,” Smith said. “But, I mean, if it’s so awful, why don’t you quit?”

Trott looked up at Smith, eyes narrowed in what looked like suspicion. “What, and give up the opportunity of a lifetime? If Ross or me makes it through three more years of torture, we’re on the fast track to a seven figure salary. And who wouldn’t want that?”

Smith hummed noncommittally. _The seven figure life isn’t as great as you’d imagine_ , he thought. But seeing the lines of stress and desperation in Trott’s face, he thought it best to keep quiet. No point shattering that illusion now.

And who knows? Maybe Trott would do better with the money than his parents had.

The door to the bar banged open, and Smith realized, startled, that the sun had set, ushering in the regular night crowd. A very tall man with shaggy blond hair hurried in, brushing at a large splash of water on his coat ineffectually. He made his way to the bar. “They got gutter water on me,” he said in a plaintive tone.

“Check the back, pretty sure we’ve got at least three of your spare coats.”

“Oh, really?” he perked up immediately. “Awesome! Thanks.”

“Not my choice, Duncan. You’re the one who left them here.” The excuse fell on deaf ears, Duncan rushing away to pick up his coat. Smith sighed. He didn’t want Ross and Trott getting any wrong ideas about him, like, for example, he was nice.

Ross had a superior smile on his face. “Regular?” he asked.

“You’re so observant,” Smith said mockingly. “What’s it like being that observant?”

“Oi, twat, no need to be so condescending.” Ross looked startled as soon as the words left his mouth, cheeks coloring pink. “I mean - sorry mate -”

Smith grinned, sharply. “If you weren’t being such a thick-headed bastard I wouldn’t have to be.”

Trott chuckled; a deep, rich sound. “Looks like he’s got your number, mate.”

“I wish,” Smith found himself saying. He kept grinning. He could play the smartass.

The door banged open yet again. “DUNCAN JONES.”

Both Ross and Trott whipped their heads toward the noise, alarm breaking out across their faces. Smith only sighed heavily. “For fuck’s sake, Kim.”

The young woman turned toward them, and, seeing the newcomers, became instantly apologetic. “Oh my god, sorry. Usually there’s no one here this early.”

“WHAT?” Duncan’s voice came from the back.

Kim blushed, making her way to the bar. Smith sighed and reached underneath the counter, mixing up her usual. (A custom order she’d demanded one day and stuck to ever since.) “Um, my name’s Kim,” she said, holding her hand out to Ross.

He stared unabashedly at her arms, heavily tattooed with intricate purple designs. “Um, Duncan’s, uh, friend is a tattoo artist. We get discounts,” she said. Ross only raised his eyebrows, half impressed and half alarmed, and shook the hand. Trott did afterward.

“Don’t suppose his name is, um, what’s it,” Trott paused. “Rythian?”

“Yeah - how do you --” Kim began.

“Wait a minute!” Ross said.

Trott blushed heavily, looking as if he very much regretted what he’d just said.

Smith set Kim’s drink on the counter, his thoughts turning decidedly predatory. He only just kept himself from voicing them, knowing the repercussions could be far worse than the payoff would be.

“Um, oh,” Kim said. “Well. That’s nice?”

The silence this time felt awkward and stilted. Smith poured himself another glass of whisky, hoping to put off the awkwardness with movement.

Duncan returned from the back room wearing a new coat. “Duncan!” Kim said as soon as he appeared. “What do you mean by promising to meet me for lunch and then blowing me off at the last minute? We had a plan!”

“Sorry, Kim,” Duncan said, sounding regretful. “I lost track of the time.”

Kim rolled her eyes. “Just typical.” She took a swig of her mixed drink. “Thanks, Smith, you’re a lifesaver. I’d be murdering him otherwise, and then I’d be tried for murder and nobody wants that.”

“Of course not,” Smith said in a voice that fell short of sincere.

“You know what this doofus did?” she asked him. Smith stared impassively back at her. She gestured at Duncan with her drink. “I was finally gonna do it, finally gonna meet the cafe owner but then he didn’t show up and the whole plan was ruined!”

“I’m sorry!” Duncan yelped.

“How awful,” Smith said with an eyeroll. “How about instead, you get some balls and introduce yourself?”

“Ovaries. And I can’t just _introduce_ myself,” Kim said in a scandalized voice.

“Why not?” Trott asked.

The whole group startled, seeming to remember as one that there were witnesses to this discussion. “Well - ” Kim began. “It’s just - I mean, it’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”

“Is it? I mean, we just met Smith here, and we were having a conversation and everything.”

“No, but you don’t understand - she’s like a goddess, I couldn’t possibly...”

Duncan laughed a little. “She’s infatuated. Can’t you tell?”

Trott tossed his head a little, settling his hair. “Why would you let that stop you though, mate? Isn’t that all the more reason to introduce yourself?”

Ross leaned over Trott, hands resting on his shoulders. “Trott doesn’t know fear. It’s truly incredible.”

“Well, I mean, not with this kind of thing,” Trott corrected. “Why allow yourself to be bogged down by fear when your biggest regret would be never trying?”

Smith wanted to pretend the words were directed to him. They were not.

Kim shuffled her feet and sipped her drink. “I know. I really do. But that doesn’t change the fact that I can’t look at her without blushing.”

Ross hummed in agreement. “We’ve all been there. Except Trott, of course.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Smith figured they were all reminiscing on a time. He, instead, admired the curve of Ross’ forearm.

“Can I get my rum now?” Duncan asked.

Startled, Smith looked up to see Duncan staring at him suspiciously. “Yeah, soz, just a minute.”


	2. turn off the lights and turn off the shyness

When he’d said goodbye to the two the next morning at 2 a.m., he’d been appropriately regretful. Not a phone number between them, and he’d known that the chances of seeing them again were slim. They hadn’t been lying when they said they didn’t hold liquor well - he’d had to call a taxi for them, seeing as neither was capable of using their phones. All that made it unlikely they’d stop by his humble dive anytime soon.

Sips informed him in no uncertain terms that he was being unnecessarily whiny about it, and that the older man couldn’t hang around such a Debbie downer, leaving Smith alone in the bar for the rest of the week.

The hours dragged on. Sure, he could play the odd game on his mobile, watch a show on the single bar TV - but that didn’t succeed in banishing the weighty pressure of being on his own.

Imagine his surprise when Sips came strolling in on Monday evening whistling a jaunty tune and wearing a shit-eating grin.

“Wouldya guess,” he said, “just which company invested in my business?”

“Your dirt business?” Smith drawled, unimpressed.

“Yeah. C’mon, pay attention, ya big jabroni, you’ll like this part, okay?”

Smith set down the glass he was cleaning, leaning against the counter and giving Sips a blank expression.

“I got called in to a big ol’ investment firm, with a bunch of those high-fliers. And of course they sent me off with some of their juniors ‘cause it’s not like my business is doing well yet - of course, the returns are gonna be through the roof, especially after this - and just who do they send me in to see?”

“Who?” Smith asked, as unenthusiastically as he could manage.

“Your crush! The little one. I could see him trying to figure out if he recognized me, but I don’t think he figured it out.”

“Trott?” Smith asked involuntarily, his heart picking up speed. He tried to convince himself that it didn’t matter.

“None other,” Sips said.

“But you didn’t let on, right?”

“Nah.”

“So he won’t think we’re tracking them down.”

“Of course not, jeez.”

The door opened and both Sips and Smith turned to look.

It was Trott.

“I thought I recognized you,” he said with a grin, his arms folded across his smart suit, no doubt leaving creases in the fabric. He made his way toward the bar counter. “So you’ve got a business of your own.”

“Yeah, it just doesn’t come up as much as Sjin’s.”

“Sjin? The owner of the bar?”

“Yeah.”

“How’d he get started, anyway?” Trott asked, taking a seat on a barstool. He threw a glance at Smith and raised his eyebrows. “Your cheapest, weakest beer, thank you.”

“Coming right up,” Smith said.

“Sjin always wanted to start his own business - he worked with me, first, but the joker’s always loved stuffing his gob,” Sips said.

“Seems so,” Trott allowed, accepting the beer from Smith. “You haven’t done too bad yourself, though. I’m sure with enough capital, you’ll be able to turn quite a profit.”

“You think so?” Sips said, expression bordering on suspicious.

“Land is a high commodity these days,” Trott said, and shrugged. “And middlemen tend to survive market dips and rises quite well. You’ve got a solid chance, anyway.”

Smith and Sips were staring at Trott with something akin to alarm.

Sips snorted a laugh, amused. “Sure, and I’m the Queen of England.” He smirked.

The silence stretched.

“Wait…” Sips said, “You’re actually serious?”

“What?” Trott asked. “I wouldn’t have agreed to invest if I didn’t think you had a fair chance of doing well. That wouldn’t help you _or_ me.”

Trott wasn’t bad at holding up conversation. In fact, he was quite good at it. Still, time seemed to tick by slowly until Ross trailed in as well. The taller man’s vibrant language and enthusiasm belied his genuine ability to empathize, and Smith was continually surprised by his depth of insight.

As the clock hit two o’clock, Smith wished them goodbye, cautioning himself that this would _certainly_ be the last time he saw them.

But they came back the next week, and the next. Though they didn’t spend much, having the two join the crowd of regulars brought new life into the dingy old bar. Or perhaps that was just his imagination.

In any case, Smith didn’t think he’d ever been so happy.

Don’t look at him like that.

It had been a long time since he’d found anyone who shared that same kind of rough humor as him - his childhood friends had long since drifted away, and it was difficult to meet people like that in the day to day. Duncan and Kim and Sips were company, but . . .

Ross leaned forward over the counter, scent of beer drifting from him faintly. “C’mon, mate, you can’t tell me you’ve never tried, at least.”

“Yeah, mate, I’ve tried. It’s not that exciting.”

“Oh, c’mon.” Ross bounced up on the balls of his feet.

Trott was practically lounging on the bar stool, as best as one could, legs crossed and eyes narrowed with amusement. “Ross, mate, leave off. He obviously doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“It’s not that,” Smith said. “I just dunno what you want me to say, mate.”

“Isn’t there some kind of difference, you’d admit?”

“Well, yeah, but-” Smith was really alarmed they were even having this conversation. What, exactly, had brought this upon him?

Oh, right, his constant sex jokes. “I’m bi, so, I mean, either is fine?”

“Right,” Trott said. “Me and Ross are full-on gay.”

“Super gay, even,” Ross added.

“X-ray vision and everything,” Trott agreed.

“‘Gratz,” Smith drawled. “Speaking of which, why is everyone I know gay?”

“We flock toward each other,” Trott suggested.

Ross nodded gravely. “We need greater numbers.”

“To enact our gay agenda?” Smith asked.

“Precisely,” Trott said.

And the days meandered past, until it was St. Patrick’s Day and the bar was packed to the brim.

This was really the only day of the year Smith had to _work_ , per se; crowds of students and blue-collar workers teemed through the streets, searching for cheap alcohol and other drunkards, claiming Irish ancestry and history.

And now, in the tiny bar, patrons were climbing over each other and laughing uproariously. Something seemed to keep most of them at the tables rather than the bar. Perhaps the fact that Sips was standing behind it, sharp tongue and all.

Somehow, and Smith himself didn’t know exactly how, he’d convinced Sips to help, though the lazy bastard would only pour drinks and hand them to Smith, with a vague and unflattering description of the customer, letting him walk them out to any patrons.

And because of Sips’ aura, the crowd was even more dense than it ought to have been. Smith had to edge along the walls in order to get anywhere in any reasonable amount of time.

So he had just been passing by the door, three beers in hand, when it swung open yet again, this time to reveal Trott’s face, flushed pink.

“Sssmithy,” he said immediately, and Smith grinned at his slur. “‘Sup mate?”

“Just earnin’ a living. What’s up with you, mate? Where’s Ross?”

Before Trott could answer, an annoyed patron called out to Smith, and Smith nodded his head tersely at the bar. “Go say hi to Sips.”

“‘Kay,” Trott agreed placidly.

Smith brought the drinks quickly, slamming them on the table a bit too hard; drunk people don’t usually care how neatly their drinks are served to them. He turned about on foot and dodged his way through the crowd quickly, to find Trott leaning heavily on a barstool and rambling to Sips.

“An’ then, he sssaid, he said to fuck off!” Trott snorted a laugh, apparently finding this hilarious.

Sips grinned, and said: “Listen, pal, you’re off your tits.”

“So what?” Trott said, perhaps a little too loudly. A laugh escaped his lips, seeming almost against his will. “So what?”

“So, mate, why the fuck’re you so drunk, and where did you leave Ross?” Smith asked, dropping his hand down onto Trott’s bony shoulder.

“Oh, no, no, no, he’s not out. He’s at work, he has um, you know, a, um. He has to do something, I forget what. He ditched me, mate. Yeah.”

“Ah,” Smith said. This was a … not a _good_ turn of a events, but he wouldn’t call it a _bad_ one either. Dangerous. Yeah, that would work. A dangerous turn of events. He pulled his hand from Trott’s shoulder, and patted the seat he was leaning on. “You really oughta sit down, mate.”

“Nah, nah. Get me a beer, will ya?”

“Y’sure, mate?”

Trott flapped his hand, a bit too vigorously. “Yeaaah, mate, I’m fiiiiine.”

“Well that was convincing,” Smith said.

“I’m a paying customer,” Trott said.

“Yeah, yeah, got plenty of those tonight.” But Smith did make his way around the bar, pouring Trott a quick glass. A small glass.

When he handed it to him, Trott pouted. “C’mon, mate, be a mate.”

“You drink this and I’ll see how much drunker you get,” Smith said.

Trott downed the glass in a couple of quick gulps, slamming it triumphantly back down on the counter. “‘Mfine, mate!”

“ _Christ_ , Trott, you don’t have any idea how to drink responsibly, do you?”

“Whazzat, then?”

The door slammed open, customarily loudly, to reveal Duncan, red-faced and jovial. “Hello!” he called loudly, stumbling over himself in his attempt to take off his jacket. Begrudgingly, Smith made his way over to Duncan and helped him out of the jacket before he hurt himself. Or someone else, for that matter.

“Thanks. Hey, can I get a rum?” His voice was booming, plenty louder than the crowd surrounding the two.

“You really think you should at this point?” Smith asked, eyebrow raised.

“C’mon, why do you always try to be a spoilsport?”

Smith snorted. “Have some water first, okay? Come back to me later.”

“Fine. You’re _mean_ though.”

“And you’re deafening. We all got our problems, mate.”

Smith turned, leaving Duncan to wobble his way to the nearest table to join the general ruckus. Darting through the crowd, Smith just managed to dodge a few more exuberant patrons and duck behind the bar when the whole crowd broke into uproarious song. Christ, he _deserved_ some alcohol to deal with this shit.

Smith reached under the bar to pour himself a whisky, disappointingly small. He couldn’t afford to lose his motor control. Or mouth control, for that matter.

Then he looked up and saw the empty spot where Trott had been before.

“Sips! Where’d he go? Jesus, it was like two seconds!”

Sips laughed, or snorted, rather. A crooked grin broke out on his face, and he shrugged his shoulders. “Look, guy, why d’you think I would know?”

Smith darted around the side of the bar, clutching his whisky desperately in his hand. God, he had not had enough to drink to deal with this. “You were here when he -- you sonovabitch.”

Sips had pulled out the bottle of cheap gin (kept mostly for his own usage). He wiggled it at Smith, shit-eating grin still on his face. “C’mon, he’s a _paying customer_.”

“Who gives a shit?” Smith ran his free hand through his hair. “He could be passing out in the bathroom right now.”

“Nah, you big worrywart, he’s having a great time! Right there.”

Smith’s eyes searched the crowd fervently, following the line of Sips’ arm to a crowded corner by the back wall.

Trott looked completely hammered.

He was swaying on his feet with a stupid grin. Relief swallowed Smith, and he felt a matching smile work its way onto his face, Trott’s vague and cheerful expression tickling him.

Too bad Ross wasn’t here. Smith could imagine that the tall man would wrap his arm around Trott’s shoulder, and he’d whisper what could either be sweet nothings or pointed suggestions - and Ross would grin and his eyes would narrow, and Trott would maybe even blush.

Wishful thinking on his part. They weren’t very fond of PDA, as far as he could tell. What he would’ve given to see it, though.

And then Trott caught his eyes, and the smile on his face took on a more salacious look. Christ.

As if that wasn’t enough, Trott began to make his way toward Smith, the sound of his movement drowned out by the loud music. In the dim lighting, Trott’s eyes seemed to glow.

Smith took a significant swig of his whisky.

Trott stumbled slightly as he reached Smith, and Smith had no choice but to reach out and grab him. Trott looked up, somewhat dazed, and smiled beatifically at him. Smith’s stomach jumped, and he found himself caught, staring wide-eyed at Trott. Trott reached a hand up and stroked Smith’s cheek.

Smith’s breath hitched, and he tried to lean back.

Trott grabbed his arm, hauling himself to his feet. His head was level with Smith’s collarbone, now. Before Smith had a chance to do something, say something, his hand landed on Smith’s hip, and his other went to the back of Smith’s head.

And pulled him down into a kiss.


	3. i've got headaches and bad luck

Smith couldn’t look either of them in the eye.

Which was an issue, seeing as he kept needing to hand them their beers. Regardless, he did his best. Trott’s eyes reminded him far too much of the feel of his hand, gentle on Smith’s hip, and the taste of his lips.

Ross reminded him of the same, but with significantly more apprehension stirring in his gut.

Christ, he didn’t want to hurt them. Either of them. It seemed Trott was going to make that as difficult as possible. His hand brushed Smith’s as he reached to pick up his glass of beer, and Smith jerked his hand away as if stung.

Ross’ voice was quiet, more calm than it often was. It only tore deeper at Smith. “It was really a very good song, but it was also awful at the same time.”

“He tries too hard,” Trott agreed. “He’s got the technical skills but there’s no flow.”

Smith hummed, noncommittally. Just keep calm. Eventually, they would leave, and then he could go back to sitting in the quiet bar alone, listening to the scratchy radio in the background.

He just had to stay calm, noncommittal, and somewhat pleasant. Yes, this is what acquaintances act like, isn’t it?

“You feelin’ all right, mate?” Ross asked, and Smith suppressed a groan of frustration.

“Yeah, fine, just tired ‘sall.” He was a little surprised at how easily the lie sprang to his lips, but definitely grateful.

“If you say so,” Ross said, doubt coloring his tones. “Do you have anyone to cover you if you’re ill?”

Smith shrugged. Remember, stay calm and pleasant. And don’t look at them.

“Seriously, if you’re not feeling well, we can go.”

There it was - the moment he’d been waiting for.

Right?

He just had to say he was ill, and then they’d go.

But … what about next week? And the week after that? They would keep coming, Ross oblivious, Trott apparently absolutely fine with whatever had happened, and him, forced to wade his way through what felt like a downright minefield of feelings and other things he didn’t like thinking about. May as well start getting used to it.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

The door flew open with its customary fervor. Smith just barely saw, in his peripheral vision, Trott and Ross turning their heads as one to see who it was. They were no longer startled; only curious.

And their interest was answered as Duncan and Kim burst in, Kim hanging heavily from Duncan’s arm and practically skipping.

“I’m in love!” she said in a sing-song voice as she dropped Duncan’s arm and made a shoddy attempt at a pirouette. “I’ve never been more happy in my life!”

Usually, Smith would have many sarcastic comments vying for choice, begging to leave his lips. Today, he only watched Kim as she danced her way to the bar and gave him an ecstatic grin. “I have a date with the cafe owner!”

“Congrats!” Ross said, enthusiasm infecting his voice and raising its volume, seemingly beyond his control.

“What’d she say?” Trott asked, interest coloring his tone, and Smith heard him as he shifted in his seat toward Kim.

“Um,” Kim faltered for a moment, blushing. “Well, actually, she asked me out. I, um, didn’t ask her.”

“So what does that matter?” Ross demanded. “That just means she likes you as much as you like her! That’s fantastic!”

“She’s so beautiful,” Kim said, leaning both her arms onto the counter. “Her hair is long and so golden, and her eyes are just really bright and blue, like Smith’s only way better.”

Smith kept his eyes focused on Kim, skin crawling, sure that Trott and Ross were both looking at him now.

And then he noticed - Duncan was still stood a distance from the bar, coat on and everything. And as Smith looked over at him in confusion, Duncan’s eyes met his and then Smith realized.

 _Duncan knew_.

And while Sips had thought it was hilarious, Duncan knew better.

Goddamnit.

How had he even managed to remember last night, anyway? He’d been thoroughly drunk.

Practice makes perfect. And if there’s one thing Duncan was practiced at, it was being drunk.

“...Right, Smith?”

“Hmm?” Smith’s eyes focused in on Kim, who still had that blissful expression on her face. “You sure you’re not on something?”

“Bugger off, Smith, I’m in _love_. And you haven’t answered the question.”

“What question?” he asked brusquely.

“You’re useless.” She turned toward Ross and Trott, leaning against the bar counter and sighing blissfully.

Finally, finally, Duncan approached. He still stood several feet away from the others. And when he reached the bar, he waved Smith over.

As Smith walked, Ross, stood. “Be right back,” he said, and left in the direction of the bathroom.

Business as usual, Smith told himself. “Rum?” Smith asked.

“You know that’s not why I wanna talk to you.”

“--and she was blushing, too; it was just the cutest thing, I almost screamed--”

Smith gritted his teeth. “Go on, then. Fuckin’ say what you wanna say, mate.”

“I’ve known you for a long time, Smith, but I’ve never seen you do something like that. That’s just--”

“--awful, and I was trying to apologize, but she just waved her hand and said not to worry about it, and then I was blushing too, I’m sure--”

“It wasn’t exactly my choice,” Smith bit out.

“Well, you shouldn’t be part of it, okay? I like those guys just fine, but seriously, if you’re gonna get pulled into some kind of messed up love triangle thing, you should just, I don’t know, talk to him or something.”

“Him?”

“--and so she told me my drink was on the house and then she said--”

Duncan raised his eyebrow. “Don’t play stupid, Smith. Tell Trott about why you can’t fuck him.”

“Christ!” Smith hissed, voice dropping down to little more than a murmur. “Say that a little fucking louder, won’t you?”

“Why not? Ross deserves to know.”

“--and that’s when she said she’d like to see more of me, and she asked if I was busy tomorrow--”

Smith dropped his head down into his hands, but after a fraction of a moment jerked it back up again. Didn’t want the others to catch on to what they were saying.

“Fuck you, Duncan,” he said quietly, but his voice was laced with defeat.

Duncan nodded, and turned away from Smith, back toward the others. “Hey, Kim, I’ve got Rythian’s new demo book. Wanna take a look?”

“Yes! Oh my god, where is it?”

Duncan gave Smith a too-significant look, even as he responded lightly to Kim. “Oh, I left it in the back with my other coat. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

The two left, Duncan’s steps even, Kim practically skipping in overwhelmed delight.

And Smith was left staring intently at the bar counter, Trott’s pale thin hands just visible out of the corner of his eye.

Fuck.

Duncan was right.

He looked up and met Trott’s eyes for the first time that evening, and his breath caught in his throat. Fear, anger, and something else tore at him, and he sucked in a deep breath.

Trott stared at him with bright eyes, expression free of guilt or fear. He smiled slightly as Smith looked at him, and Smith had to break the eye contact, looking back down at the bar counter and taking a steadying breath.

“Trott, I have to say something.”


	4. moves make up for the silence

Trott was quiet for a moment, but as Smith waited, he finally hummed inquisitively, an altogether too pleasant sound that had Smith dying to smash glasses. How could Trott act so … so guiltless?

“Trott,” Smith said flatly, voice low.

“What’s up, Smith?” Trott asked.

Smith steadied himself with a deep breath, dragging one hand up to cover his mouth. In… and out.

“Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” Trott’s tone was laced with concern.

And Smith gritted his teeth.

“What in the _fuck_ were you thinking?”

Smith didn’t look up during the stunned silence that followed. He waited, almost hoping for an excuse. Something logical, something simple. Then he could put this all aside and pretend it never happened.

“What...?”

Smith’s eyes shut, forehead creased. He took in a shuddering breath. When he finally spoke, his voice was gravelly.

“Trott. Why the fuck did you kiss me?”

Silence.

Opening his eyes, Smith turned suddenly and faced Trott, fear banished by the anger stirring within him. Trott’s face was confused, and perhaps a little nervous.

Not enough.

"How could you do that to Ross? To me? To - to yourself? I'm not just -- you can't just--"

Smith broke off, dropping his hands to lay flat on the counter. Trott's eyes were watching him carefully. Too carefully. Somewhat like an animal tracks its prey.

"A kiss?" Trott asked, his voice quiet and a little more deep than usual.

Smith pushed back off against the counter, stepping back and shifting his footing. "Yes. A fucking kiss, Trott. Where do you get off - why did you-"

For God's sake why couldn't he just say something?

What did he _want_ to say?

He wanted Trott to correct him. Tell him he'd misinterpreted everything.

But Trott said nothing, staring at him with wide eyes. Smith turned away from his face and began to pace in earnest.

His voice leapt up and out of its own volition. "What the fuck did you think you were doing? Were you thinking about anyone other than yourself, you absolute _cunt_?"

“What the fuck!”

Smith had heard Ross loud before, but never quite like this. The force behind his words was raging, deeper and sharper than usual. Visceral.

“ _Smith_!”

Smith had never heard Kim sound so horrified. And he’d never expected to. His peripherals warped for a moment, and he shut his eyes. God, he felt like he was going to pass out.

They were acting like this was _his_ fault.

Was it?

He was moving before he realized it, striding to the door purposefully. He yanked it open and nearly dived through it, as quickly as possible, thinking only of getting the _fuck_ away from them. _All_ of them.

He heard Duncan call out after him, saying something. He couldn’t tell what; the blood rushing through his ears deafened all of the sounds around him: the voices, the traffic. He was trapped in his own head, thoughts spinning and spinning and spinning and-

He picked up pace.

_Just don’t think just keep walking don’t pause and don’t think._

“Are you all right?” an old woman asked him, and he blinked out of his reverie. She stood watching him, a little suspicious, as if she rather suspected he was high. He didn’t suppose he blamed her.

“Y-” he cleared his throat. “Yeah, no problem, thanks.”

She sniffed, a bit rudely, and continued past him.

He had just ruined everything, hadn’t he?

Congratulations, Smith, you win the national award for fucking up your life the fastest! Go on upstage and claim the grand prize. Ooo, it’s a bag full of shit!

He clenched his teeth and stepped on. Anything he’d been thinking about, any of the quiet hopes he’d not dared to voice, not even to himself - they were gone before they became fully formed, dashed to the ground like so many forgotten --

For fuck’s _sake_ , Smith thought. How long have I been so disgustingly _maudlin_?

But it was true. He’d held within him those feelings which he’d been unable to address, not even in the dark of the night.

He’d never take Trott. Not at the cost of Ross.

But the reverse was also true.

He _wanted_ them, _needed_ them, but...

 _What_ did he want from them? His pace picked up, shoes clacking rhythmically against the pavement. He didn’t want Trott, though he was ridiculously enamored with the man, and he didn’t want Ross, though his guilt over kissing Trott was astronomical.

He knew what he wanted. He was just afraid of admitting it to himself.

He wanted both.

What on earth was he thinking, anyway? He’d never been a particularly jealous lover, but at the same time… it seemed impossible.

But when he dug down to the root of the issue, the only reason he could find to call it that was convention. That didn’t help any. He was trying to talk himself out of this absurd daydream, not into it.

It’s unnatural, Smith told himself, and balked. Right, because that argument’s so convincing when applied to homosexuality, and gender identity, and …

This is something different, he thought. How?

He didn’t have an answer.

But in the end, it didn’t really matter what he wanted, did it? Polyamory wasn’t the same as cheating, and he wasn’t down for whatever the hell had been going through Trott’s mind, if anything at all.

Well, no doubt Ross knew about it now, anyway. And based on how angry he’d seemed when he’d come back into the bar, Smith rather doubted he’d even get to find out what the two decided. Whether they could “work it out” or not.

Smith felt sick at the thought that he might be the cause of their breakup.

It had been so long, he’d forgotten what it was like to be close to people, but now he remembered. And with it he remembered that fearsome sensation of a fuck-up: everything that could go wrong when there are emotions involved.

Why had he given in to those feelings? Why had he indulged his desire for connection? He didn’t _need_ it. And now he was worse off than he was before.

He had reached a park without realizing, and sat himself heavily on the closest bench. He stared out over the field of grass, empty but for a few young couples. The day was overcast, humid air clinging to him like saran wrap. Not a good day for an outing.

His leg began bouncing of its own volition. Too worked up to stay still.

“God fucking damn it,” he said under his breath, dropping his head into his hands.

He felt so cruel. Trott had looked so surprised, eyes wide and mouth open, as Smith had yelled at him. He seemed - what, vulnerable? Not arguing back, not telling him to be quiet, making no defense. Just staring at him with wide sad eyes and waiting.

“Chrissake.”

But he wasn’t the one who’d gone and done the stupidest fucking thing he could think of, was he?

Except …

He seemed _so_ oblivious.

Maybe -- he’d been so sloshed, Smith thought. Maybe Trott’d been blackout drunk. Smith knew he couldn’t hold alcohol worth a damn, and he’d never seen him so unsteady.

And if that were the case…

If that were the case, then Smith would have just ruined Trott and Ross’ lives for nothing more than his own fears and desires.

“Fuck,” he hissed, lifting his head back out of his hands. “Fuck.”


	5. i used to waste my time dreaming

The walk back to the bar seemed far shorter. The city streets blended together in his mind as he paced purposefully along.

It was over. Done with. The might-have-beens didn’t matter. He’d feel guilty, for a while, and then they’d fade into the background again, just some people he knew once. And that would be fine. That’s just how life goes.

But when he turned the corner onto his little street, a shock of fear passed through him.

Standing outside the front door of his bar, waiting, was a familiar tall figure.

Smith thought about turning around and leaving but something must’ve alerted Ross to his presence; he looked up and their eyes met across the meter distance.

Ross gave a halfhearted wave, and Smith swallowed his apprehension and stepped forward.

They were both silent as Smith pushed open the door of the bar and made his way to the counter. Ross followed behind him quietly, and Smith wished that the other man would hurry up and say his piece so that Smith could go on with his life.

On the bright side, at least he wasn’t trying to kill Smith.

“Trott’s pretty upset.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

Smith sat heavily on one of the bar stools, eyes fixed on the grimy windows. “Yeah,” he muttered.

“I’m glad. I was worried for a minute there.”

Smith snorted.

There was a light shuffling; Ross shifting on his feet. “This is actually my fault, and I’m really sorry for putting you through this. It’s just … it’s hard to be upfront about it.”

...What? Smith turned his head to meet Ross’ eyes. “What are you talking about?”

Ross’ eyes shifted to look down at the floor with studied interest. “Well, I mean, it was my idea.”

“What, for Trott to kiss me?”

“No!” Ross said, his eyes meeting Smith’s again. He took a deep breath. “Well, sort of. And me, preferably.”

“What?”

“Um.” Ross’ face was pink. “For both of us to kiss you. And, well, other things.”

“You mean like…”

“Polyamory.”

Smith stared at Ross, who was beginning to look increasingly regretful.

“I know, I know, it’s stupid,” Ross said. “No one really wants to be the third, I mean, not that it’d be that way, but I guess it’d always kind of feel like that, so that would be unfair. And I mean, that’s just me assuming as well. You never said you wanted to - we just, well, we hoped you would.”

Smith moved his hand to cover his mouth. He breathed in deeply, light-headed and a little bit dizzy.

“You both wanted to..?”

“Yeah,” Ross said, a little sheepishly. “It was my idea, but you know Trott, he’s the fearless one, so he offered to - well, you know.”

Distantly, Smith felt the blood pounding through his arteries. But the sensation of hope, clawing at his heart, was blotted out by instinctive anger. “ _And you thought the best way to do that was to make me think Trott was cheating on you?_ ”

Ross blanched, guilt written in the line of his shoulders. “We didn’t think - we--”

Smith sighed, holding up his hand. “Look, don’t bother, okay. It doesn’t really matter.”

Smith turned to the bar counter, staring at the shelves of drinks lining the back wall. “So… what. You were looking for a unicorn, and you happened upon me?”

“Wha-no!” Ross exclaimed. “No, I mean, we’re interested in an - equal partnership thing. No priorities, or anything.” He breathed in deeply. “Sorry, I don’t think I explained myself well. We’re not looking to tack someone on to the preexisting relationship. We’ve, well, we’ve talked about it, and neither of us feel comfortable with that. It’d be like … a new relationship, with three people.”

Smith brought his hand up to cover his mouth. He sucked in a breath. He felt he ought to be thinking, and thinking hard, but all he could seem to do was stare at the line of bottles as if mesmerized.

“Look, I--” Ross began.

“What if I said yes?” Smith asked.

“What?” Ross asked, voice rising with surprise.

“If I said yes, what would happen?”

“You mean right now?” Smith stayed silent, and Ross continued. “Well… I suppose we’d head over to mine and Trott’s flat, and we would tell him, and take it from there? I suppose?”

Smith turned around finally, heart racing, the rush of blood fueling his excitement as he said: “Yes.”

Ross looked shocked. “What, really?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you… you seemed angry.”

“Yeah, I was. Doesn’t mean I’m not…”

Ross waited.

“...not attracted to you. Both of you.”

Ross shifted nervously. “I mean, this isn’t -- we’re not -- this isn’t a friends with benefits thing. This is a real relationship.”

“Yeah,” Smith said. He bit down on the inside of his cheek. “I’m not good at this.”

Ross smiled, and Smith realized that was the first time he’d seen it today. His eyes were crinkled at the corners and the bridge of his nose was scrunched. Smith felt a smile appear on his face in response. “So long as you know. We’re not gonna pressure you to say anything, or whatever,” Ross said.

“Thanks.”

Ross gestured loosely at the front door. “Y’wanna head over to ours? Trott’s waiting.”

This time as he left, Smith took the time to lock the bar. When he turned back to Ross, the other man had his hand out, waiting. Smith reached out, and Ross clasped their hands together as they began to walk down the road.

Their flat wasn’t far. Tucked into a modest neighborhood, the building was beige, nondescript. A far cry from the high-roller nature of the investment culture; but then Smith’d always known they didn’t quite fit in there. Ross led him up the two flights of stairs and then pulled a key out of his pocket.

And Smith’s heart began to race. He’d nearly forgotten that he’d have to face Trott. Apologize, probably. He had been … he’d been awful.

Ross had said that Trott felt awful, too. Shit. He’d never been good at comforting people.

Ross opened the door to a quaint little sitting room, cheap furniture lining the walls and many, many loose papers scattered across the surfaces. And there, sat on the edge of the couch with a mug in his hand, was Trott.

He was wearing what appeared to be pyjamas, with a blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape. He was studiously reading a thick, hardcover book: Smith caught the word “legal” along the spine.

And his eyes flickered up to meet Smith’s.

Smith found himself tightening his grip on Ross’ hand, unable to control the thrill of alarm that ran through him.

“I explained it to him,” Ross said, pushing the door shut behind him.

“Yeah?” Trott said, his voice just courting hoarse.

“I’m sorry,” Smith blurted.

Trott’s eyes snapped back to his, a touch of something - wistfulness? concern? - crossing his features. “You were upset, understandably so.”

“That’s not an excuse - I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

Trott set down his book. “I didn’t quite remember,” he said, as if Smith hadn’t spoken. “I wasn’t blackout, but things were fuzzy from last night. It took until you were halfway out the door for me to remember what you were talking about.”

“I should’ve realized--”

Trott rose to his feet, dropping the blanket on the sofa behind him. “Look, mate, from your point of view, it made sense. Sure, you’re a little better at yelling than most people, but hey, I’m fine, you’re fine, we’re all fine.”

Smith bit his lip. “We are?”

Finally, a smile crossed Trott’s face. He walked toward Ross and Smith, skirting the coffee table and arriving just a few feet in front of Smith. “Yes, we are, you silly twat.” He reached his hand up to rest along Smith’s cheek, and Smith sighed heavily with what was either contentment or relief (or perhaps a little of both).

“But you’re kissing Ross before you’re kissing me again, mate. Fair’s fair.”

“You say that like it’s my fault!”

Trott raised his brow archly. “Who says it isn’t?”

There was a tug on Smith’s hand, and Smith turned to meet Ross’ eyes. “C’mon, mate, do it for Trott.”

“Yeah, right, like--” Smith’s words were cut off by Ross’ lips, and Smith couldn’t help but lean in, a hum of contentment rumbling in his chest. The feel of Trott’s hand against his cheek was warm, and the taste of Ross’ lips was intoxicating.

And Smith was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, he’d arrived home.


	6. i just wanna know what it’s like

Smith had never really done well with long-term relationships. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up in someone else’s bed and not immediately bolted for escape.

Until the two of them.

This early summer morning, when he woke up, all he did was snuggle closer to the warm body next to him.

“Smith, gerrof, I need to get ready.”

“Nooooo…” he muttered into the skin of Trott’s neck. He placed a deliberate kiss along his jawbone.

“There’ll be plenty of time for that later, mate. Can’t be late for this. This is the big one, mate.”

“I thought that was the big one,” Smith said, putting his hand where it didn’t belong.

“Fuck! Go bugger Ross, all right?”

“Ugh,” Smith said, but rolled away when Trott shoved him. “Ross!” he called out plaintively. “Trott’s being mean!”

“And you’re surprised?” Ross’ voice called from the kitchen.

“Ugh,” Smith moaned, rolling onto his stomach.

He was distantly aware of the sounds of the shower running and Ross tinkering about in the kitchen. They made a soothing melody, one that he drifted in with ease.

But still, he found himself awake right before they needed to leave; his body had already gotten used to that timer. He rolled out of bed and pulled on a pair of boxers, stumbling out to the main room.

There they stood.

Ross cut a sharp figure in his navy suit, light blue dress shirt bringing out the color in his eyes. He stood with easy confidence, briefcase hanging from his left arm.

Trott was dressed in his black suit, with a yellow dress shirt that was almost, but not quite, too bright.

“Don’t you look handsome,” Smith said.

They both turned to look at him as one, Trott halfway through slinging a tie on.

“Hullo, sunshine,” Trott said, raising his eyebrows at Smith’s state of undress.

Smith stifled a yawn. “Wishin’ you luck and all that.”

“Sentiment much appreciated,” Ross said, a little sardonically.

Trott was still struggling with his tie and Smith said, “Hold still, Trott, you’re useless.”

“What - mate, I’m not gonna believe that you’re better than me at--” Trott cut off midword, staring down at the neat trinity knot that Smith had made. “What--”

Smith cut Trott off with a kiss. “Don’t judge a book by its bar trash cover, love.”

Ross laughed and dropped a hand on each of their shoulders. “Schmitty, you’re just full of surprises.”

“Of all kinds,” Smith added coyly.

“Ooo! Dirty,” Ross said, grin sharp.

“Now each of you give me a kiss,” Smith ordered, and Ross leaned in obediently, Trott following after. “‘Kay, lovelies, you’ll do wonderful. If the going gets rough, just think about your very attractive boyfriend, naked, and I’m sure it’ll perk you up nicely.”

“Operative word being ‘perk’,” Trott said.

“‘Sright,” Smith agreed. “Now go on.”

They moved together to the door, Trott reaching for the handle.

“Bye, mates. I love you.”

Both started, as one, turning back to look at Smith with wide eyes. His cheeks colored.

“I love you,” Ross said, breathless.

“I love you, too,” Trott added, and his hand moved up unconsciously to rest against his tie.

Smith sucked in a deep breath. “Now get going you lazy sods, you’re going to be late!”

They disappeared out the door together, and Smith stood alone in the living room for a moment, heart racing wildly in his chest.

Love.

It was beautiful. They were beautiful.

And very, very right.


End file.
